


Them Ugly Shoes

by 1mprobabl3on3



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Het, Morning Routines, One Shot, Romance, Teen Romance, Unconventional Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:28:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21790399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1mprobabl3on3/pseuds/1mprobabl3on3
Summary: Victor is truly fond of his morning routine, so when he sees a stranger sitting at his table, he is overwhelmed with sheer panic.Clara hates her life and realizes she is finally tired of being lonely, so she tries to reach out.Will they be able to meet in the middle?





	Them Ugly Shoes

She stood at the entrance of the shop, smiling and greeting politely the customers as they walked in the Café. Reneé had been working at the place for years now, and one of her favorite parts of the day consisted of studying some of her favorite regular customers, to whom she all had given nicknames, from afar.

There was, for example, “Pomeranian lady,” a middle-aged Italian woman who would only come on Tuesdays and Fridays, holding onto her small dog like it was a life jacket during a shipwreck, and who would always get a pumpkin spice latte with an integral flour _cornetto_. “Filled with honey, _per favore”_ she always added, even if every employer had by now memorized her order. Then, there was Frank, an elderly gentleman who she liked to think only came to see her. She was not even sure that was his real name, but she thought it fitted him. He would sit at the big table by the window, hanging his brown cane on the side of the wooden surface, and sip his double espresso-shot cappuccino while observing the people hurrying outside, mumbling something about the younger generations.

Her favorite customer, however, was “Cereals girl," a young lady who must have been in her early twenties, with big, brown expressive eyes, who would come in every morning and order a chai-latte with almond milk. She would then proceed to get a “mixture of all the cereals you have, please," and sit by herself in a remote corner. Initially, every employee that worked there had thought that she was completely nuts. How could anyone have such a morning appetite? Then, however, as she kept coming back every day, walking in at 7:00 am sharp, and greeting everyone with the biggest smile, they had gotten used to her particularities and had rather grown fond of her exuberant personality and outfits.

As time passed, however, Reneé could not help but notice that “Cereals girl” was always so lonesome, sitting at her small table in the corner, and eating her sugary breakfast while looking down at her phone intensely. Some days, when she was not on her device, she would pull out a thick stack of paper out of her green-striped backpack, and would then start writing on them, using a multitude of different colored pens. She always looked so focused, and Reneé liked to think that one day the young girl would finally look up from her papers and fall in love with some mysterious stranger.

*******

Looking back, Victor was still not completely sure of how he and Clara had become friends, but he sure knew that it was none of his merits. He was indeed a brilliant young man with many talents, and many, from his high school teachers to his latest boss had congratulated him on his achievements. At the same time, however, everyone seemed to share the same concern: Victor could not make friends with anybody to save his life. At first, people had thought it was because he was a shy kid, but as he grew up, they started to realize that he simply did not care for human interaction.

He wished he could be one of those people who could casually start a conversation with strangers, maybe with a comment of how terrible was the Summer weather on that coast. But he simply was not. The truth was, in fact, that Victor had always been too fond of his daily routine to go out of his ways and connect with other people. He hated pleasantries and did not see the point of wasting his meticulously organized time in exchanging brief conversations with strangers, so he had resulted to not even try. There was something so reassuring in knowing how predictable things were, and only the thought of unforeseen events to throw off his schemes and calculations made him shiver. When he had discovered he had gotten a Summer fellowship at the National Museum of Natural History, hence, he had rejoiced at the thought of having to spend days among old, silent artifacts, and not colleagues.

But then, Clara had not been in his life yet.

The day Victor met her he had woken up five minutes later than his customary 6:45 am and was already running late on his schedule. As he showered, he meticulously went over the detailed plan he had made for the day that was stretching ahead of him, when he noticed that the temperature of the water was not the usual and that the pressure was too low for his liking. “Bad omen,” he thought to himself, “there better not be any surprises today” he muttered while drying up and looking for his light-blue Monday shirt. He then carefully packed his briefcase, selected the playlist of the day before walking out of his apartment, and slowly headed towards an obscenely modern building with tall glass windows, and linoleum floors.

***

Growing up, Clara never had a "type." She had always found that reducing the attraction to a type, an ideal of perfection, not only contributed to objectify people, reducing them as the mere summation of their attractive features, but also significantly reduced the possibilities she had of finding someone who could make her happy. If there even was someone for her. However, when he walked into the Café on a Monday morning, wearing a crisp light blue shirt, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and shiny earphones, she immediately felt a connection. It was like being drawn to a magnet, and she knew that she had ultimately no choice but to give in. She wanted to give in.

Clara observed him silently, while distractedly eating her cereals, and thought that he was attractive in an unconventional way. He was probably older than her, but just of a couple of years, and the way he walked, like he was meticulously studying every step he took, and his furrowed brows behind the thin grey glasses contributed to building an aura of authority around him. She stood up from her little table, the same shaky one in the corner that she had selected on her first day there, and slowly approached the counter again, feeling the urge to be closer to him. "I could always use another chai," she thought, "it's not like I'm only doing this to see him." Deep down, nevertheless, she knew she was lying.

As she stood in line behind him, she smelled his cologne, a light and fresh one, with hints of talc, which vaguely reminded her of a mixture of clean laundry and of a perfume that her mother used to wear when she was younger. His shoulders were broad and muscular, and a navy-blue blazer lazily rested on one of them, while on the other he was holding a brown leather shoulder bag.

After ordering a black Americano and some scrambled eggs, he sat down at a table not too far from the entrance, and Clara felt a light sting of pain, realizing that she would probably never seen him again. It was such a relief, hence, when the next day she saw him walking into the shop again, and the following morning, and the one after. Soon she found herself stuck in the same routine. She would order her usual and wait for her latte to chill while reading the daily news on her phone. Then he would show up at precisely 7:45 am, wearing a different pastel shirt for every day of the week, and she would casually place another order, secretly hoping that he would start interacting with her.

But he never did, and so she came up with a plan.

***

Clara had been patiently waiting for almost an hour now, silently enjoying the rays of sunshine beaming on her pale and freckled skin. She had always preferred the rain, but she found that every once-in-a-while a sunny day could not only be welcomed, but even cathartic. It had something to do with Calcium and bones or, at least, that was what she remembered her _abuela_ always nagging her about. God, she missed her. Clara quickly looked around for the hundredth time that morning, her foot nervously tapping on the ground, but there still was no trace of him around. “Of course, it is not 7:45 am yet,” she reassured herself.

As the dreaded hour approached, she started getting increasingly more nervous. What if he did not come that day? What if he had found another café? “Fuck, I knew I should have acted sooner,” Clara reprimanded herself, her mind now uncontrollably jumping to conclusions. She had not even noticed that tapping had become increasingly louder, but then an older lady sitting with a small dog a couple of tables away shot her a glaring look, to which she responded with an apologetic half-smile and the mental promise to learn to control her fidgeting better. Suddenly, the bell on the door made a pristine chime, and there he was, wearing a meticulously ironed navy-blue suit, with that shirt he would wear every Monday. He was wearing those shiny earphones he always had on, and Clara’s confidence faltered for a second.

“It’s now or never,” she thought to try to reassure herself.

***

Having made up for the lost time, Victor entered the Café at the corner between Bedford and Grove Street at precisely 7:45 am, greeted the old lady at the entrance who cheered him with a toothless smile and walked towards his table. He had started having breakfast there only a few weeks, and it had taken him a few days to carefully select a spot. He had decided for a comfortable burgundy booth, one of the few that were not shaky, right in front of the big windows, perfectly facing northeast. He loved the feeling of the warm morning sun shining on his table and waking him up as he absentmindedly observed people hurrying down the street, like ants busy with their routine.

That very day, then, he was quite surprised, to find someone casually sitting there, a huge bowl of sugary cereals and a flaming hot latte right in front of her. He had to admit that the intruder was somewhat attractive, with big brown eyes, curly hair and, apparently, a big morning appetite but, still, it was an intruder. Someone, a complication, who had unexpectedly dared to interfere with his meticulously planned routine. For a split second, he felt lost, suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that there was ultimately nothing he could ever do to prevent others from tampering with his life. Caught unprepared and, upon realizing that the girl was now looking at him almost expectantly, Victor then realized that there was only one reasonable thing to do in that situation. And so, he sat down with her.

***

For what felt like an eternity, nobody said anything, he still too shocked and embarrassed to utter a single word, and she too focused on what looked like a horrid mix of all the sugary cereals that humans had ever created. “M-my name is Victor, by the way,” he attempted cautiously after a while, desperate to put an end to the awkward silence. She looked up from her bowl. Her eyes looked even bigger now, and he suddenly was taken aback from the feeling of something moving rapidly in his stomach. “So, you do know how to speak,” she paused a second to eat a spoonful more of what perhaps used to be Lucky Charms, “for a second I thought somebody had stolen your tongue.” “I’m Clara,” she said introducing herself, “by the way,” she then jokingly added in a much lower tone to mock him. Feeling even more embarrassed than a second before, Victor decided that it was time for him to grab some food. “Maybe she will be gone by the time I go get some eggs and bacon,” he silently prayed while standing in line. Only she was not.

He was almost late to work that day, and it was all her fault. He had never been late – or almost late – in his life, and he had risked throwing away all that hard work just because a stranger had decided to sit at his table and distract him. After she had finished eating, she had in fact insisted on asking a lifetime of questions about him as if he were some member of the royal family and not the youngest child of a single housewife from Ohio. Never in a million years, he could have imagined that such a petite person could contain that much enthusiasm and curiosity and, quite frankly, he even though that it was so impudent of her to ask so much about his private life. He, on the other hand, had not dared to ask a single thing and tried multiple times to put an end to the dialogue by theatrically putting his shiny earphones in. “I will go get breakfast earlier tomorrow, so I won’t meet her, and everything shall be back to normal,” he promised to himself, immediately reassured by the comforting thought of his routine being back to normal. Then carefully stepped out of the escalator and walked into his day.

The next morning, however, he was even more surprised to find Clara, wearing an unusual all-purple outfit that made several people turn to take a second look, sitting casually at his table again, sipping coffee. She was wearing the same pair of ugly shoes she had worn the day before, and he could not help but take a look at them, wondering why anybody would ever wear something so dreadful and unpractical.

It was a pair of white canvas shoes, of which she had changed the laces, replacing them with a bright green on one shoe, and a hot pink one on the other. The sole, however, was were the true problem laid. It was extremely chunky and irregular, looking almost like someone had unsuccessfully tried to bond the different layers of rubber together by melting them one by one. Every layer, additionally, was painted a different color, creating a final rainbow that clashed terribly with the top part of the shoe. He hated them immediately, "they are the Frankenstein of shoes," Victor thought chuckling as he promised himself never to look at them again.

“I was waiting for you,” she greeted him as they had been friends for a lifetime, interrupting his train of thought. “And look, I've got you some coffee!" He briefly eyed the cup, bracing himself for the worst coffee of his life, let out a sigh, and listlessly gave up the idea of a peaceful morning spent listening to a podcast on how to arrange ties based on shape and color. “At least she is not eating that horrible thing again,” he thought sitting down and grabbing the cup. He was sure it was going to be another long morning, and it was only 7:45 am.

***

Sitting down at was _their_ table now, Clara felt incredibly nervous. Perhaps Victor would not show up again. Yes, she had probably scared him the previous day, and so he had resorted to looking for a new café where to eat breakfast. “Think of something positive, something happy,” she tried to distract herself from the feeling of her anxiety bubbling up. “Think of…" she paused, "the shoes! Yes, yes… let's focus on the shoes."

Clara’s remembered how her leg had not stopped trembling for a second the day she had bought them. She could almost see her mother’s impatience bubbling up as time was passing by. Her movements had become stiffer and jerky, her lips had been tightly united in a forced smile of convenience, almost as a subtle apology for her daughter’s behavior. It had been a hot day, according to the news on tv perhaps the hottest of that Summer, and her lower back now felt stuck to the cheap leather of the couch, a thin layer of sweat stronger than any glue.

Clara had been trying on shoes for a while now, and the poor employee was starting to show visible signs of difficulty as she politely turned down every pair that he brought out of the back of the store for her to try. She had tried on dozens of shoes, all too tight on the front, or too white, or with a sole that made squeaky noises when walking. Right before she was about to give up, then, another employee, younger and visibly tired, brought her the last pair of shoes they had in the back, and she instantly fell in love with them.

It was a pair of dirty-white canvas shoes that had a chunky and irregular sole, painted like a rainbow, and as she tried them on, she was only confirmed that it was exactly the pair she wanted. They looked like someone colorblind had designed them, and she thought that was exactly what made them look so unique and special. She had worn them and immediately felt special, almost invincible, "We'll take them" she exclaimed excitedly, and her mother and the poor employees looked immediately relieved.

***

The days passed and, slowly, and unexpectedly, just like she had done with his favorite table, Clara started to appropriate Victor’s favorite moment of the day too. He would have never admitted it but, little by little, he had found himself surprisingly enjoying small things of that weird morning routine of theirs. It would happen, for example, that her hands would casually brush his as she was getting out of the metro, and five hours and many coffees later, he would still be daydreaming about the softness of her hand or the warmth of her palm. “This is weird,” he kept thinking, becoming increasingly more paranoid as time passed. “Perhaps I am catching some rare disease and I should immediately get checked out by a good doctor.”

It took as little as three weeks for the young man to start counting her as part of his sacred morning ritual, and some days it would even happen that he would wake up before his alarm went off, cotton-mouthed and smiling at the thought of what unpredictable adventures she would have told him about that day. It had even happened that, on a particularly boring day at work, as he was organizing some prehistoric artifacts, he had the brilliant idea to rename one of his favorite skeletons, the one exhibited in room 13 on the first floor, after Clara. He could not recognize himself anymore and felt like a giant idiot because he could not help but discretely nod at “Clara” whenever he passed by. 

***

One particular Friday, she quite literally grabbed him by his arm and dragged him across town to a small Mexican place that served just one type of tacos and watered-down margaritas. What a funny scene they must have been for passers-by. As they sat down, Victor panicked upon realizing that they were the only customers in the place. There was an unpleasant smell of burnt onion in the air, and on the walls, the owners had hung cheap prints of mountains and cabins in the wood that he thought classed terribly with the stained yellow walls and fake palms. In one corner an old pug lazily dozed on a slouchy and slightly chewed pillow, and he thought he had never seen a dog quite so ugly. Just a month before he would have made sure to run out of the place as fast as possible, but now here he was, sitting at a table, attentively listening to her going into a full description of what had happened that day at work like it had been some sensational news. 

The food was mediocre, the waiter had even forgotten – or maybe pretended to– that he had asked for a vegetarian taco but, surprisingly, he did not care. Clara asked him thousands of questions and, this time, he did not mind answering. Several margaritas after, and they even started dancing. She, at least, was. Victor was more awkwardly trying to rock his torso and moving his feet without stomping on hers, and for a split-second, he wished his mom had convinced him to take those dancing classes that his therapist had suggested. She laughed at the sight, and he followed her. They were happy. Even more when he woke up the morning after, positively surprised to realize that he had a light headache. A concrete proof that the night before had really happened, and that it was not only a mere fantasy of his delirious subconscious.

It took a few days to build up the courage to finally text her. “We need to talk about something,” he texted her and immediately threw his phone away, walking around his room nervously. What he was about to do was extremely risky, and he knew the stakes were high. “Meet me in front of the Cafe, 6:40 tonight?" she replied, late as usual. He did not even care that six hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds had passed, too relieved that she had replied in the first place. Maybe, after all, he could make friends. Maybe, even more.

***

As soon as she approached him, he could tell that she was extremely nervous and uncomfortable. He knew because of her slender fingers were nervously fidgeting with the white linen bow of her trousers, and by her tired, forced smile. Victor had studied her enough to notice than when she smiled sincerely small wrinkles formed around her eyes, and this was not the case. She seemed tired, and her eyes, the same ones he had been looking for every morning upon entering the café, were now focusing on anything but him.

He hesitated a while, before gathering up the courage to let out a small cough. “There is something you should know,” he begun, wavering and watching her stealthily, just to find her staring at the soles of her shoes. He had hated those shoes since the first moment, but he never dared to tell her. To break her heart like that. It was her favorite pair, she had once told him, and so he had convinced himself that he liked them too.

“We have been friends for a while now, so I thought you had figured…,” he continued, a sudden urge to get rid of that heavy truth that had been pressing on his chest for too long now. For a fraction of a second, she looked him straight in the eyes, and Victor realized. "… I… I a-am …,” he stuttered, the words suddenly refusing to roll off his tongue. His mouth dry as the Sahara, his tongue like sandpaper. A deep breath. He pictured the words in his mind, all lining up in his mouth and ready to go, like little missiles ready to be dropped. Only he was not so sure of what would happen after the impact.

“I really like you,” he then blurted out, panicking. “What?” she laughed nervously, and he thought there was nothing to laugh about. “I like you,” he repeated, this time making sure to articulate meticulously every sound, wearing his heart on his sleeve, and struck by the sudden urge of looking anywhere but at her. “I don’t know what to say," she said quietly after a minute that felt like an eternity. “Maybe you could try to tell me how you feel,” he vaguely attempted to be funny, the ghost of a nervous laugh in his throat. His palms were getting sweaty, and he rubbed them against each other. A bad habit he had as a kid, and that he thought he had gotten rid of.

He waited, crystallized for her reply, but she did not, and suddenly Victor understood that there was no need for words anymore. A slap would have probably hurt him less, but he somehow managed to not show any sign of emotion. It only took half a second for him to put back the invisible armor she had gotten under, and all of a sudden, he was the old Victor again. Or maybe not completely.

“Victor,” she attempted to say, a bitter smile on her face. She tentatively raised a hand, her ice-cold fingers brushing lightly against his cheek. He imperceptibly moved away, feeling numb. “Victor, please… please, look at me. I’m so sorry!” Clara cried out. “I wish I could like you back, but… I don’t know, and I don’t know not knowing…” she paused, and he suddenly felt anger bubbling up. “I’m not a kid. There is no need to always try to protect me,” he replied coldly. “Especially now that you are the one hurting me,” he then added and immediately regretted saying it.

“Victor listen to me. Please, please. Victor… it’s not what you think” but it was too late. His legs had automatically started moving, her voice getting increasingly more distant as he walked away from her. The sky was clear, and he could feel small drops of sweat running down his back and wetting the synthetic material of his shirt. “You want to avoid confrontation? Fine! But just so you know… I always knew that you didn’t really like my shoes. You, Victor Wallace, are a terrible liar!” she screamed one last time, and a couple of passers-by turned their heads to see what was going on. But not him.

“Ugh, them ugly shoes” was the only thing he could think as he kept walking down the street.

***

Clara stood in the street for what felt ages.

Her legs had gone numb, and she could not feel her hands anymore. She had not realized that was crying until she felt salty tears streaming down her face, slowly dragging her mascara off, and resting on her lips. Her limbs were tense, and her heart pounded fast, too fast, making blood rumbling in her ears. She decided to take a moment and sat on the ground still in disbelief, and not caring for the glances that strangers were sending her. They could all have gone to hell. Everything had happened so fast that she did not even know where to start processing the information. Her mind was spinning, and for the first time in a long time, she felt lost and disoriented, like she did not belong there.

He had told her he liked her.

“He” as in Victor.

Victor liked her. “Her” as in Clara.

No, it simply was not possible. Was it? She must have had some kind of hallucination, perhaps a heat stroke. It had been a hot day indeed, and she could feel a thin layer of sweat pearling her forehead and further ruining her already melted makeup.

He had told her he liked her.

But what was there to like? How could he possibly find her interesting? All her life she had been in love with the idea of being in love, and now that it had happened Clara was not sure anymore that she knew how to love someone. For fuck’s sake, she was not even sure she could love herself in the first place, how could she reassure him of her feelings?

He had told her he liked her, and she had rejected him.

Realization suddenly overwhelmed her, she stayed silent for a second and then burst into hysterical laughter, which rapidly turned into sobs. She finally had had an occasion to be happy, and she had wasted it. And then it hit her. Victor, poor Victor, he must have felt horrible.

What had she done?

She had to do something, and quickly.

But what?

***

She walked slowly, her eyes low, her mind focused on putting one foot in front of the other to avoid acknowledging the people impudently staring. All her life she had felt invisible, and of all the moments she could have become the center of attention this was clearly the least fortunate. Dozens of pairs of eyes sticking to her skin, that she could now feel on herself were clearly a cosmic joke, just as if the rain had not been enough. “There is no other way out. It will be worth it,” she whispered carefully while compulsively straightening her skirt. Everyone already thought she was completely crazy so there was no point in chickening out now. The squalid linoleum was sticking to her favorite socks, the ones with little corgis that he had bought her that Sunday she had forced him to go to the mall with her; now completely soaked. Small grains of leftovers slightly poked her skin, and Clara felt like she was walking on a landmine field. She had this under control.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

He was sitting at his usual table, the only one in the room who had not yet acknowledged her presence, sipping coffee and looking as handsome as ever. Clara was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization of how much she had missed him in the past days, her body aching and longing to feel his cautious and reassuring touch. “Jesus, I promise, if you help me out with this one, I’ll go to church with Mother on Christmas,” she silently prayed, seeing that the steps leading to him were now only a few. She had never been religious, but that had felt like the right moment to become so. It had taken her a whole lot of thinking to be sure that this was the right thing to do, and courage was now failing her again. “Hi,” Clara now stood awkwardly in front of him, her ears of a shameful and vivid red, and her clammy hands rubbing together, a stupid habit she had picked up from him.

If Victor was surprised to see her, he had managed to hide it well. As he focused his eyes on her thin, shaking frame, he did not say anything in reply, and Clara instinctively let out a small sob, thinking that could not be a good omen. “I-I…” she began, her voice only coming out as a low rasp. “I know you hate me, and I deserved it. But I came to say that they’re gone,” she blurted out. He looked at her, clearly confused, so she took a deep breath and then, with a hopeful look on her face, she took a step back to show him. Victor gasped in realization.

***

“She is not wearing any shoes,” Victor thought, confused by the absurdity of the scene. Clara had walked into the cafeteria slowly, looking down at her feet like a death row inmate that knew her time had come. She was wearing one of her (un)usual monochrome outfits and, as her soft curls brushed her face, he felt a sudden burst of anger in realizing that his feelings for her had not changed. “I can’t even bring myself to dislike her, not in the slightest” he mumbled, “I’m such a loser.” Victor sneaked another glance at Clara, hiding behind his cup of coffee, and was surprised in realizing she was indeed nervous. Her shoulders were curved, probably carrying the weight of whatever stupid thing she was about to do, and her hands were nervously playing with the hem of her green skirt. “Still,” he thought, “she looked gorgeous.” Seeing that she was now getting closer to his table, he pretended to look busy, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of having his attention. “Hi,” she timidly greeted him, and his heart skipped a beat. He did not reply, too focused on how she was rubbing her palms together, a habit she had picked from him evidently, only that it looked way less stupid when it was her doing it. He had missed her tremendously and hated himself for that. “I know you hate me, and I deserved it. But I came to say that they’re gone,” she stated rapidly with a grave, formal tone. “What?” he though confused, but then she stepped back and showed him.

And then, it suddenly hit it. He had been wrong! How could he have not understood before? For someone so smart he surely could be so dense sometimes. Clara had not gone completely mad and forgotten to wear her shoes… she was rather not wearing _those_ shoes!

His heart skipped not one, but a million beat, and looking straight into her eyes he let out a loud gasp.

***

All those years Reneé had been working at the cafe had helped her develop quite the eye to spot couples, and so it was not of a surprise when yet another one walked out that morning. Their hands linked together tightly, both of them trying to sneakily steal glances at the other when they believed their significant other was not looking. She had secretly rooted for “Shy Boy” and “Cereals girl,” as she had nicknamed them in her mind, to get together since the first day she had seen them sitting at the same table.

“I wonder why she’s not wearing those shoes she always wears tho," Reneé thought, “they were… different” she added while smiling at the couple a toothless smile.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Hopefully, you have liked this little story of mine. I had started writing it for a creative writing class, and then realized it had such a special place in my heart that I wanted to share it with others and see what they thought about it.  
> I know there are probably some mistakes here and there, and I apologize, but English is not my first language and I'm constantly trying to improve. Nevertheless, any critic or suggestion is highly appreciated!
> 
> Love,  
> G
> 
> xoxox


End file.
